Cookie
by DemonFox38
Summary: The Scout has had enough. He's going to make that frog stop seeing his mother if it's the last thing he does. Nothin' dirty going on.


**Cookie**

* * *

><p>His mother was going to be in town today.<p>

The Scout should have been elated to see her again. She was in the process of moving out of the Boston area to Teufort. He wasn't entirely sure why she was doing this, but he was happy, none-the-less. It meant he would get to see her more than a couple times a year. It wasn't like anybody was left in the Greater Boston area, anyway. His brothers had scattered to the four winds as soon as they could leave—Trenton, New York City, Annapolis, wherever. Their respective fathers were gone as well. Sure, he missed some things about Boston. The Red Sox, the Atlantic Ocean, the sea food. Hell, even the winter. Most of all, he missed his mom. So, when she told him of her plans to move to be closer to him, he was ecstatic.

Well, he was. Then he realized that his mother and the Spy would be within driving distance of each other.

Christ on a cracker. The Scout wasn't naïve. He knew his mother was…But that wasn't important! The fact was that dirty Frenchman had wooed his way into his mother's heart. With cookies. It might have fooled the Scout the first couple of times, but he'd quickly learned what it meant when his mom and the Spy talked about cookies. It wasn't exchanging recipes, either. To think that his mom and that goddamn rat could be baking cookies on a routine basis put him over the top. He had to stop this, even if it meant convincing his mother to stay alone in Boston.

First things first. Shower time. It was important to start the day clean. Unfortunately, he wasn't alone this morning. The locker room was a pretty awkward place overall. Not to say he was chicken or anything, but the Scout didn't exactly like taking a shower when others were bathing, too. There were things he'd seen that he couldn't unsee. Some interesting things too, but mostly, stuff that made him want to scrub his eyes out with soap. If he looked, he didn't look for long. Just a general rule.

His company wasn't so bad, though. Just the Soldier and the Engineer. They weren't keen on the whole communal shower thing, either. The three could respect each other's privacy. Well, at least nobody made eye contact. The foreigners were way worse. Sometimes, the Demoman would forget to wear clothes to the locker room, which made for painful mornings. The Spy wasn't reserved, so every time the Scout had the unfortunate locker room encounter with him, all he could think of was that his mother had seen the exact same thing. Then he would want to throw up. The Sniper was not exactly shy about being in the buff, but at least he didn't stare. The Heavy didn't give a damn either, but he occasionally would make a blue comment. God help anybody who hadn't visited the Medic lately, because he would take the time to ask about every new development. Moles, scars, whatever. He would not shut the hell up about it until he got an answer, either. As for the Pyro, well, nobody knew and nobody wanted to know.

"Good mornin', String Bean," The Engineer greeted the Scout. The Bostonian panicked for a second, but realized that was his nickname and not something else. He kept his eyes fixed on the tile in front of him. Don't look, don't look, don't look.

"It is not a good mornin', ya freakin' happy freak." The Scout's A-game swearing was not in play today.

The Soldier laughed. "Isn't your mother coming today? Why are you so grouchy?"

The Scout squeezed a generous amount of shower gel into his palms. "Yes, she is. But keep your yaps shut about it, a'ight?"

The Engineer shook his head. "Son, if you're tryin' to hide that fact from the Spy, ya know ya're already too late for that."

"Don't care. Don't wanna talk about it." The Scout dug into his scalp, rubbing it back and forth with a quick motion.

Both the Engineer and the Soldier chuckled at his nervousness. Jerkfaces. They were lucky their moms were old and ugly and stuff. Hopefully, they'd leave soon. They didn't have the same rocken' hair that the Scout had. Both of them went silent for a while, the Engineer whistling some pop tune. God, that was irritating.

The Soldier was chuckling again. "So, how was that barbeque last night, Baldy?"

"Oh, well, ya know. Always takes forever and a day, but if ya want ta do it right, ya've got to take it slow." The Engineer was grinning from ear to ear. He turned off his nozzle and fetched his towel, taking a moment to dry off.

The Soldier finished up as well, the conversation echoing through the locker room as he scrubbed at his skin with a terrycloth towel. "Legs again?"

"Ya read me like a book." There was a shuffle of jeans and cloth as the Engineer dressed, still whistling away.

The Soldier's laughter rolled through the locker room, much to the chagrin of the Scout. Bastards couldn't just get dressed and leave already? "Better it take easy. Can't be good for your heart."

"Yeah. You'll probably end up a total fatso like the Heavy!" The Scout sneered. That actually helped his mood, just a little.

Now both the Soldier and the Engineer were snickering. Hmm. The Scout didn't think it was all that funny. The Engineer teased him back. "Ya just take it easy today, son. Wouldn't want ya to go up and have a coronary yourself."

The Scout grimaced. He should have waited ten more minutes in bed. Then he could have at least had a quiet start to his terrible, no-good, crappy ass day.

* * *

><p>He'd made it until eleven o'clock before he finally lost his cool. Everybody had been polite when his mom showed up, quick to shake hands and even the occasional friendly hug. The Spy didn't kiss her on the hand—at least, not this time. Frenchie must have been on his best behavior today. Or maybe he was sneaking something behind the Scout's back. Just another reason to keep an eagle's eye on him.<p>

The team had a pretty laid back breakfast and a rather extended coffee break. They'd gone on about boring stuff. Johnson. Nixon. The other war. The Apollo mission. Boring crap. He felt like a confused little kid listening to adults blathering on about nothing. At least most of them left to go do stuff. Cleaning. Fixing things. Playing pool or cards or something. But when it was just his mother and the Spy left, then it got awkward. She'd talk sweetly to him, and the Spy would chime in with some crooked little French phrase. Most of the time, she ignored it, but there were a few occasions when she would respond back. In French.

He needed a break. To get away. Far away.

The Scout snuck away for about half an hour, just to let his mom talk about what-freakin'-ever with the Spy. There was one guy he could always talk to about his parental issues. Sure, he wouldn't get a response more complicated than a grumble most of the time, but at the Sniper could relate. Not that his mom was being hunted down like a doe. Cause, man, woof. It was pretty quiet up in his nests, too. Nobody was poking their head around, at least not on days off. Sometimes, if he was lucky, the Scout got to witness a pretty sweet kill as well. The Sniper was pretty damn amazing at picking off whatever the hell wandered the New Mexican desert.

The Scout went on for twenty minutes, spewing random curse words and reasons he hated what his mom was doing. He could have continued for forty more, but it was clear the Sniper wasn't paying attention. "And ya know he's probably got a slimy frog tongue, and—Hey! Are ya even listenin'?"

The Sniper muttered something, but it was too low for the Scout to understand. The Bostonian rolled his eyes. "Fine, ignore me. Everyone else has."

What surprised the Scout was when the Sniper actually clarified himself. "Did ya ever stop to think about what your mother wants?"

The Scout lifted an eyebrow, almost shocked to silence. "What?"

"I said—oof—well, you heard me, mate." The Sniper groaned as he got off of the wooden floor. Must have been lying down too long.

"I—well—what I mean ta say is—that's a damn rude question." The Scout found himself losing words.

The Sniper sat down on a box, placing his rifle gently to the side. He turned to face the Scout, actually making eye contact for once. "Well, is your mother happy?"

The Scout felt his lip twitch. "I—I guess, but—"

"And is the Spy treaten' her right?" The Sniper asked.

Whoa. That was a weird question, coming from him. "Whaddya mean by that? You and I know the guy. Runs around, back-stabben' people all the time. Hell, the other Spy's the one that messed your back up so damn bad. Can't even lie on the freakin' ground."

The Sniper smiled. Dammit, everybody was smiling today. He gave his back a slow rub, trying to work the kinks out of it. "Nah, mate. Wasn't him. Just had a rough tumble."

"Whatever! But ya know he's a jerk! And I don't want him hurten' my ma!" The Scout jumped to his feet, pacing the sniping nest with a new fervor. Man, when he felt this mad, he just wanted to run. He could have gone so fast that he could have burned the desert. Maybe shot around the world and straight through the atmosphere.

The Sniper spoke tersely, but he could pick the right words. "Then tell him that."

The Scout stopped. Talk to the Spy? Well, he could talk to his mom, too, but he didn't want to make her cry. She was the only family member he really talked to anymore. Didn't have a dad to fall back on. His brothers? Forget about all of them. Maybe that was why he felt so protective of her. He might not be able to talk her out of this relationship, but he could talk with the Spy. And if he couldn't convince him to stop seeing his mom, then he could always knock him in the teeth with a baseball bat.

What was to lose? "Think I will."

"There ya go. Now piss off. Ya're going to make me lose another shot," The Sniper picked his rifle back up, scanning the horizons for a new target. He started humming as well, smug enough to think he'd solved the Bostonian's problem. That tune sounded familiar.

Well, the Scout knew when he wasn't wanted. He blew a raspberry at the Sniper, then hopped onto the ladder leading out of the nest. At least he'd gotten a plan for solving this problem between his mother and the Spy. All he needed to do was get a moment alone with the frog, then fry him. Or whack him. Either way.

* * *

><p>It wasn't until his mom left that afternoon to go house shopping that the Scout had a chance to corner the Spy. Even then, he had to drag the Frenchman out of the mess hall and lock him in the study. It was hard to get him to talk, even when the Scout had wedged a chair in the door to keep him from escaping. And sat in it. At least the Spy didn't get the bright idea of escaping through the windows. Sure, it was a ten foot drop, but he could probably get away. Instead, he decided to mimic the Scout and sit in his own chair, quietly, waiting with the patience of an interrogator.<p>

Even then, ten minutes of silence seemed a bit excessive. "Well, boy?"

"I don't like you seein' my ma." It came out in a fast blurt.

The Spy squinted his eyes. "Oui. Je sais."

"Speak English, would ya? Geez. You're in America," It was easier to snap at the Spy than have this conversation. What was he thinking? He should have just continued bitching behind the Frenchman's back.

"Fine, zen. I know zat you do not like me seeing your muzza." The Spy leaned forward in his chair. He crossed his fingers, resting his chin on the interlocked bridge between his hands. "What of it?"

A hard lump formed in the Scout's throat. Oh, man, this sucked. "But she likes you."

The Spy nodded. "Oui."

"Do you—I mean, do you and Ma—still bake cookies?" The Scout felt his face flush with hot embarrassment.

Thankfully, the Spy knew where he was going with this. A smile slowly grew on his face. "Oui. We still bake cookies."

The Scout winced at the term. Man, he wasn't even going to look at chocolate chips the same way again. Or macadamia nuts. Or walnuts. Frankly, that euphemism was ruining a lot of good things for the Scout. He tried to erase the subtext from his head as fast as possible while keeping enough of it to stay on topic. He was going to have to punch the Sniper later for suggesting this.

"Fine, okay. Good. Whatever." The Scout took in a deep breath, trying to settle himself. "I just want you to be good to her, okay?"

The Spy was amused with his statement. He reclined into his chair, smirking. The Scout didn't know where he was going with this. The smug bastard was trying to hold the tension as long as possible. He was taunting the boy. Finally, the Spy did something other than sit there and grin. He took a cigarette case out of his pocket and flipped it open. It wasn't his special one that made him turn into other people. Just a normal one.

The Spy lit the cigarette and took a drag. He offered the contents of the case to the Scout, but the boy declined. He shrugged, taking another moment to collect his thoughts. The words came out slowly, like if he was holding onto each one as long as possible. "We may have our differences, boy, but I can promise you this. We have one zing we share in common. Neizer one of use would ever want to see your muzza hurt."

The Scout thought on that for a moment. He paused, the next question timid. "Ya—ya love her?"

"Mais oui." That smile on the Spy's face did the translating for the Scout.

The Bostonian sighed, satisfied with the answer. "Good. 'Cause, ya know, my mom's…well, she's loved a lotta guys. And, well, ya know. They just don't stick around. "

The Spy nodded. "I will not go, zen. Not unless she wants me to."

Had he been a girl or something, maybe the Scout would have given the Spy a hug. Instead, he just smiled. It was an infectious gesture. He got out of his chair, dislodging it from the door. There wasn't any need to keep the Spy trapped here anymore. He'd gotten the answers he was looking for.

The Spy chuckled. "You know, I could have been lying to you ze whole time."

"Yeah, well. If ya were, then I would have to bash your freakin' skull in. No big deal," The Scout wasn't exactly subtle with his threats.

The rest of his mom's visit went well. Turns out she'd found a little ranch house on the edge of Teufort. She had to crunch the numbers on how much she could put down on it, but it was within her price range. Both the Scout and the Spy were elated, although neither freely admitted it to each other. Just to have her around more often would be good enough. It helped to know that there were two sets of eyes watching her back.

Now that he didn't have to worry about his mom, the Scout wondered what the hell else went on behind his back.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>

This had been sitting in the back of my head for a while. I wanted to do something with the Scout confronting the Spy about his mother, but I didn't know how to do it without breaking that damn Midwestern Lutheran asexuality I seem to have when writing about romance. Then I figured it out. Euphemisms. My mother had a friend who would use the term "cookie" every time she was talking about sex, so that's where that came from.

I also had a cat named Cookie, but that's unrelated. Kind of.

Additionally, I wanted to write a story where maybe the main character isn't picking up on an event going on in the background. Being the masters of subtext, I'm sure you've all already picked up on it. To make a long story short, I have a Beatles song that now means something completely different to me thanks to TF2Chan. "Oh, Darling." Can't get it out of my skull.

Well, how did I do?


End file.
